


Curse

by cyprith



Series: Modern Magic AU [2]
Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyprith/pseuds/cyprith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite several denied applications, Stefan LeRoi comes to Maleficent's office looking to purchase a ward for his newly born daughter. Considering their history, he should have known better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curse

**Author's Note:**

> This follows in the same Modern Magic AU as A Hatching (Un)Kindness, so expect some subversive shenanigans.
> 
> chocochipbiscuit prompted: the curse of eternal joy

 

“Okay. So last up, I’ve got a request from some asshole politician,” Diaval said, flipping through his clipboard. “Says he’s the most important bloke in the world and he needs lots of tax-deductible presents.”

Despite the messy expense report in her inbox and a minor crisis in shipping, Maleficent nearly smiled. “You’ll have to narrow it down.”

Diaval squinted at the paper. “Stefan LeRoi.”

Without looking up, she held out a hand. Obligingly, Diaval passed her the paper.

It made an immensely satisfying noise passing through the shredder.

“Oh look,” Maleficent said, pushing away from her desk. “We’re finished.”

Loud and brassy as ravens, Diaval laughed. “So we are.”

\--

Shipping manifestos lumped her desk like mud. Customs forms and spell registration sprouted from her keyboard.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Maleficent glared at the stack of it. Her temples throbbed. Her wings ached. She’d been on the phone since noon with no resolution—doxy infestation in the Beantown warehouse, they told her—and at this point, was _burning it down_ really such a terrible solution? She could deduct the loss of inventory on next year’s taxes, use the money to open up a smaller branch. Maybe in Ingary…

Sighing, Maleficent abandoned the idea. Relocation of workforce would be a terrible mess. Diaval would fuss. No, as alluring as the idea might be, she’d have to hire an exterminator.

Wonderful. Her wings twitched just thinking about it.

Although… she considered her office. If she sat in the very middle of the floor, she’d have just enough room to stretch.

Ridiculous, of course. Maleficent returned to the pile of headaches on her desk.

Ten minutes later, she found herself eyeing her carpet. Silk, from Agrabah. Very soft, if one were inclined to pad about barefoot after hours when no one remained to see. And it wouldn’t be so unlike sitting at a teahouse…

Maleficent glance at the clock. 3:03. No. Absolutely not. Too early by anyone’s standards—excluding Diaval’s—to dispense with appropriate work attire.

Maleficent reshuffled her paperwork into something resembling order. As a small concession to herself, though, she did slip off her Jimmy Choos.

Not long after, she unearthed an expense report that seemed to suggest the doxies had been _ordered._

Her head pounded. Her right wing cramped. With a sigh, Maleficent stood from her desk.

\--

Fifteen minutes later, Diaval strolled into her office. Without knocking, of course—although, considering the state of his resume, Maleficent often thought it a wonder he’d even come to her housebroken.

She looked up at him from where she sat on the floor amidst a sea of paperwork, bare toes curled in her silk carpet, wings brushing either wall. “Yes?”

Seeing her, Diaval’s peevish expression faded to something softer. “It helps if you stretch ‘em one at a time,” he said, almost gently.

Maleficent blinked. Certainly not the opening statement she’d been expecting. Not that it bothered her, mind. But whatever the expression on her face—although she did not believe her expression much changed—Diaval flushed and shook his head.

“Sorry. Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got the asshole LeRoi on my phone demanding to speak with you.”

As she’d suspected, Diaval had already managed to lose his tie and several of the uppermost buttons on his shirt. His flush dipped well below his collarbone, highlighting the feathered edge of a scar. Spell-burn, she thought. Or dragon fire.

Maleficent returned her attention to the paperwork around her. “His request was denied.”

Diaval sighed, running his fingers through his ostensibly untamable hair. “Told him so. He yelled at me for ten minutes.”

“Tell him again and hang up.”

“I can do that?”

Forgetting for a moment the doxies in Beantown, Maleficent smiled. “I encourage you to.”

Grinning like a sunrise, Diaval disappeared. He returned a moment later, still without knocking.

“Done!” he announced. “Very satisfying. What do you think about ordering Chinese?”

Maleficent shrugged. Tucking one wing to her back, she stretched other until it bumped the light fixture. “You know what I like.”

Diaval waggled his eyebrows at her. “I do, indeed,” he said with a rakish wink, and then, in the manner of most birds, disappeared just as she considered throwing something.

Insufferable man, Maleficent thought, shaking her head.

Worth every cent.

\--

A week later, Diaval stumbled into her office, wide-eyed and half wild.

“Sorry! _So_ sorry,” he hissed.

Maleficent frowned, watching him slick back his hair and fall into place beside her.

“What?” she asked, but no sooner had the word left her lips than her door opened again—could _no_ one _knock_?—and in walked Stefan LeRoi.

Easy in his own skin and knock-off suit, he smiled at her as though the last several years never happened, arm in arm with his beautiful, _human_ wife.

Maleficent didn’t move. Her face remained the same. No flinch, no grimace.

More to the point—no talons, no teeth, no _claws_.

“Good morning, Mal,” Stefan said, smiling, _smiling_ —bland and wholesome—his hair slicked back and clean shaven. Charming.

Charming as the day he took her wings.

Carefully, so carefully, Maleficent set down her pen. She looked up from her work, folded her hands.

Lifting a single brow, she said, “It was.”

Her face remained cool, still as slow water. But a litany of spells played behind her eyes. Magic flickered at her fingers, tempting as goblin fruit. She wanted, oh, she _wanted_ —

Diaval eased forward, the pressure of his heat at her side both a warning and a comfort. Maleficent closed her eyes. Her blinding hatred eased somewhat.

Unaware of any danger, Stefan blundered forward, earnest as his ad campaign.

“There’s been some kind of mix-up with your… secretary,” he said, shooting a half-disgusted glance at Diaval beside her, though the shifter stood between him and a particularly nasty curse. “I applied _twice_ for a personal ward system. Both times denied, can you believe it?”

Stefan laughed. His whole face lit, so careless, so bright. Caught like a moth in his glow, his wife smiled.

And it would be so easy, Maleficent thought. He wouldn’t even notice. Not for weeks. Just a little curse, carried home in the sliver of his fingernail or the shine of his cufflink. Clumsiness, perhaps, given his affinity for taking the stairs. Poor luck. The _gift_ of saying whatever crossed his mind.

“Now, we don’t need anything fancy,” he continued. “Just your standard blessing will do. But our daughter will be three weeks old next Wednesday, so you understand we’re heading fast into crunch time.”

Oh.

Of course.

A child.

Distantly, Maleficent felt Diaval’s fingers graze her shoulder, a steadying hand on the joint of her wing. For a long moment, she said nothing. Her thoughts circled like carrion birds.

Stefan smiled—smiled and smiled, forever _fucking_ smiling—his hand already on his checkbook.

So like his _father_.

And once, Stefan would have considered _that_ a fate worse than death. Crowned in flowers and caped in moss, he’d have muddied anyone who dared mention it. But looking at him today, arm like iron around his walking apology of a wife, Maleficent saw nothing of the wild boy she’d loved.

Cold to her bones, to the tips of her _useless_ wings, she turned back to the spreadsheet on her screen.

“Your application is denied,” she said. “Diaval will show you out.”

At this, finally, Stefan’s face fell. “Mal.”

Diaval stepped around the desk, wearing his most professional smile. When still Maleficent did not look up, Stefan tried again. “Mal, listen. Is this about the legislation? You and I both know it’s for the good of the city. We can’t have—I don’t know, flying _monkeys_ everywhere, distracting traffic. It’s worse than texting.”

Diaval fell still. He glanced at her, his face tight, fists clenched and a question in his eyes. Without a sound, Maleficent brought two fingers together, signing _no_.

“Flying… monkeys?” she asked, head cocked, her voice a heavy warning.

Stefan rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t take it like that. You know what I mean.”

“Oh, yes. You believe I’m dangerous.”

“Mal—”

Maleficent stood. She planted her hands on her desk, rooted them in paperwork to avoid temptation.

“You’re quite correct,” she said and smiled, so pretty—a wild thing, all teeth and warning. “I imagine you’ve already purchased the standard blessing for the poor, hideous thing, hm? Perhaps I’ll make you something special. As a christening gift. What’s her name?”

Though she stood like a shadow at her husband’s side, Stefan’s wife flinched. Clever, clever woman, she heard the threat her husband couldn’t. Placing a hand on his elbow, Mrs. LeRoi tried to step back, to carry them both towards the door.

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” she said. “Sorry for the intrusion. We didn’t mean to offend.”

But Stefan shook his head, his loafers firm on her fine silk carpet. “I’m not asking for a _gift_ ,” he said, voice darkening into something she almost remembered. “I’ll pay—you know I’ll pay. I’d commission someone else for this, but you’re the only one I trust.”

Harsh and cold as falling ice, Maleficent laughed.

“ _Trust_? How… _quaint_.” Strolling around her desk, she walked to the shelves that lined her wall, one long finger stroking the labels of her books and bottles. “Well, let’s see… Of course, you’ll want something _fetching_ for your first born. Something grand. Perhaps an old world touch?”

Stefan paled, his face falling. “Maleficent, _no_.”

Ah, so he _did_ remember.

Maleficent smiled just a touch wider.

“No? But only the most _important_ young women have curses these days,” she said. “You’re certain? No eternal, unceasing joy? No bending the will of all who look upon her?”

Mrs. LeRoi shook her head, her hands clenched white around the strap of her purse. Looking at her, trying for bravery in such unfamiliar territory, Maleficent couldn’t help wondering—had she _ever_ walked in Otherside before? Had she ever spoken to a fairy, to a shifter? Or were they simply pleasant little faces to her, meant for nothing bigger than a child’s cartoon?

Had she ever even considered them at all?

“Very kind of you,” the woman said. “But we don’t really… move in those sorts of circles, you know? We’ll—we’ll just be going.”

“Alright.” Mal let her hands fall from her shelves. She took a moment, waiting until Stefan’s shoulders eased, until a touch of his bravado returned before she said, “Then I’ll make my gift small enough to carry.”

“No,” Stefan started, “Don’t—” but Maleficent touched a finger to her lips, mist coiling green in the hollows of her palms.

She’d give him this. This one last thing. Call it a parting _gift_.

“No magic shall ever touch your daughter,” she whispered, standing before them, palms glowing and upraised. “Naught but _this._ She shall receive no blessings, no curses. Not to hurt or to heal, to help or to hinder. She will see things—all things—only as they are.” Meeting Stefan’s eyes, Maleficent smiled. “Including herself. Including _you_.”

As the magic filled the room, spiraling out into the city—into the babe, some distance away—Stefan recoiled as if iron-touched. “ _No_ ,” he breathed, eyes wild and wide. “Please. _Please_ , no.”

At his side, his wife laughed, looking at him oddly. “But that’s a _lovely_ gift,” she said, smiling. “Maleficent, thank you so much. That’s very kind.”

So gentle. So trusting. So utterly _blind._ Maleficent wondered, wherever had Stefan found her?

Dropping her wing in a shrug, she returned to her desk. If she could do nothing else, then let her do this—let her give the child _truth._ Let her see the world for what it was.

It would eat her alive regardless.

“I’m glad you think so,” she said, savoring the quiet horror in Stefan’s eyes, so stark against the gratitude in his wife’s. “Diaval, if you could show our guests the door?”


End file.
